Chapter 8
Knox
Three days in, the living room smells like formula, I haven’t slept more than four hours straight, and both kittens already have names.
Somehow, my furry roommates have taken over—and I’ve let them.
Stripe’s the caramel-coated loudmouth. Bold. Bossy. Full of main-character energy and seemingly trying to escape from the crate like he’s got someplace better to be.
And yeah, I’ve grown attached. Though I’d never admit it out loud.
Shadow, with a smoky M between her eyes, is much quieter. She gets all of Cami’s coos and gentle cradling as an actual baby would.
My ex couldn’t be bothered to nurture a houseplant, let alone a pet.
Something else always came first. Her career.
Her image. Her cheating. But watching Cami mother Shadow and Stripe during her shifts over the past few days has stirred something unexpected: a glimpse into a life I never got the chance to build.
Chasing those thoughts away, I move around my living room, folding blankets, fluffing pillows, and tossing stray toys into a basket by the coffee table.
I pull a damp blanket from the crate and replace it with a clean one.
These messy kittens might have my house smelling like the Bronx Zoo, but at least it looks semi-presentable before my relief arrives.
And right on time, my co-parenting neighbor taps on the door at two o’clock sharp, ready to assume her shift.
She looks ten times more alive than I feel—bright-eyed, all smiles, hair up, and a tote bag slung over one shoulder.
Even sleep-deprived, I don’t miss the details as she saunters inside: a loose strand brushing her cheek, bare shoulders, that citrusy scent reaching me before she even speaks.
I might be too wrecked to muster a response, yet something low in my chest tightens anyway. God help me if this woman ever realizes what she does to me without even trying.
Handing her a warmed bottle, I try not to yawn too loudly, but Cami catches the tail end of it anyway.
“When was the last time you slept in an actual bed?” she asks, already crouching near the crate.
Both kittens perk up, their soft mews and tiny paws stretching toward her as though they’ve been waiting.
Maybe I’ve been waiting, too.
“Don’t know,” I manage through another yawn. “Pretty sure the couch and I are in a committed relationship now.”
Cami fires off a hand-on-hip, pointed look. One that makes denial pointless.
“Knox, I’m happy to stay tonight.” She gives me a once-over. “You need real sleep. Eight. Full. Hours. Not thirty-minute naps between squeaks.” When I open my mouth to argue, she raises a hand before I get a word out. “Just one night. Seriously. I’ve got it handled.”
I should tell her to go home at ten o’clock like she has for the last two nights.
But the thought of waking up alone to kitten squeaks that’ll fade into a cold silence nudges at a truth I’d rather ignore.
Plus, the promise of real, uninterrupted sleep, in my own bed, feels dangerously tempting.
So yeah. She’ll stay. Overnight.
And maybe this is the riskiest damn thing I’ve done since going into Millie’s attic to investigate those phantom squeaks.
The quiet clatter of dishes and savory scents of garlic and onion yank me out of my sleep, reminding me I’m not alone.
Cami.
I scrub a hand over my face, then roll over and pluck my phone off the nightstand—6:47 p.m.
Shit. How did four hours fly by so fast?
Rubbing my eyes, I haul myself out of bed and into the en-suite bathroom.
Hot water jolts me back to life, the quick shower peeling off whatever fog four hours of sleep couldn’t fix.
By the time I towel off, that scent of garlic and onion is stronger, cutting through the steam-filled room like it’s staging an intervention.
I pull on a black silk-blend tee and gray sweatpants, hair still damp as I step into the hall.
Stairs creak underfoot, and with each step, I tell myself I’m heading down for the smell and those kittens. Not Cami.
As I step into the living room, there’s no sign of fostering chaos.
Just kittens curled inside their shared crate, passed out like a pair of drunken sailors.
In the kitchen, Cami stands at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan.
Her hair’s piled on top of her head, messier than four hours ago, a few loose strands curling near her neck.
My gaze trails over long legs, smooth skin, and those damn jean shorts hugging her ass like a second skin.
I blink hard, forcing my focus off her and onto a colander full of pasta and plates already sitting on Grandma’s antique table.
Cami doesn’t look surprised when she turns, her gaze landing on me.
“You’re just in time for dinner.” She cups the wooden spoon in her palm toward me. “Want a taste?”
Fuck me. Of course I want a taste.
And, yes, I’m fully aware she’s not offering that, but my mind darts there anyway.
“That can’t be real food?” I lean against the door frame, arms folded, pretending her want a taste question didn’t throw me off. “Seems practically vintage after two nights of takeout.”
She chuckles. “Well, you’ve kept those kitties alive two nights straight. Dinner’s your reward, along with me handling tonight’s graveyard shift.”
If dinner’s my reward, fine. But the woman dishing it up—gorgeous and stirring more than just sauce—has me bracing for trouble.
“Far be it from me to turn down a reward.” I push off the door frame and step in close, my fingers grazing hers as I reach for the spoon. That single touch short-circuits my brain more than any sauce could. “It’s pretty damn good.”
“Careful,” she says, brows raised. “You’re gonna make me think you might be easy to impress.”
Taking a slow step back, I try not to read into the casual way she just smiled up at me, try to ignore the spark still humming in my fingers.
She’s flirting, and I need to get a grip. Label this what it is: a neighborly, co-parenting meal. I’m not about to wreck the fragile rhythm we’ve found by fixating on her mouth. Or her legs—which my mind cast in a reckless fantasy I’ve no business entertaining.
It’s best to shift my attention to what’s missing from Grandma’s table, treating forks and napkins like mission-critical tasks. Anything that’ll keep my hands busy and my sex-starved thoughts in check.
Once I finally sit down, we’re across from each other, plates full, steam curling in the quiet space between us.
Cami twirls pasta on her fork, then glances toward the counter.
“Got any wine?” Her tone is casual, but there’s a gleam in her eyes.
“There’s some red in the cupboard.” I stand to grab it, then pause, a smug smile pulling my lips. “You even old enough to drink?”
We’d already had the age talk a couple of nights ago—she’s twenty-four, I’m thirty-five—but I still like to poke the bear, give her shit about it.
She smirks. “I told you the other night. I’m twenty-four. Three and a half months ago.”
“Barely old enough to rent a car,” I shoot back, a grin tugging at my lips.
“Oh, please. You probably still own CDs,” she fires back, eyes dancing.
“Vinyl,” I deadpan.
“Figures.” Her grin is triumphant and priceless all at once. “Yet somehow, I’m the one who whipped up this lavish, pantry-inspired masterpiece.”
We both laugh, and just like that, tension breaks, softened by sarcasm and a comfortable spark that hasn’t stopped crackling between us.
After grabbing the bottle of red and two glasses, I pour a generous splash into each, then slide back into my seat across from hers.
Late-afternoon sun has dipped low, casting an amber glow through Grandma’s old lace curtains I’ve been meaning to replace.
Light catches on Cami’s hair as she twirls another bite of pasta, gold flickering through dark waves.
For a second, I forget to breathe, caught off guard by how beautiful she looks doing something so ordinary.
I drop my gaze to my plate, willing myself not to fixate on her beauty. Not to imagine leaning in, tasting red wine on her lips. Not to wonder what she’d do if I did. It’s official: I’m losing my mind over someone I’ve no business wanting.
We eat and sip in companionable silence for a beat, then Cami tilts her head.
“So, five nights ago, you were here alone, probably enjoying peace and quiet.” She takes a bite.
“Now you’re surviving on four hours of sleep and sharing your space with two squalling newborns and an under-qualified co-parent. ”
“Oh, come on now. Under-qualified?” I lean back, fork in hand. “You went from newbie to pro in a matter of hours.”
She smiles, a hint of color blooming on her cheeks as she lifts her wineglass. “What about you? Have you fostered kittens before?”
“Nope. First time for me, as well.” I take a sip of wine. “Seemed like they’d be a good distraction.”
She raises a questioning brow.
“From my divorce,” I say. “Figured fostering kittens would be cheaper than therapy.”
Cami’s smile tugs sideways. “Therapy helped me heal from a traumatic relationship.” She traces the rim of her glass, finger circling in slow, thoughtful loops.
“I spent years with someone who made me feel like every single thing was my fault. It took a while for me to understand love isn’t supposed to be me constantly side-stepping landmines. ”
I shift in my seat, wineglass balanced loosely between my fingers. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
She shrugs, her eyes showing no deflection, only clarity. “I’m not sorry. Not anymore, anyway. I got out. Went to therapy. And I’m okay, which, for now, feels like enough.”
Her admission grazes a nerve. I may not have walked her exact path, but I’ve stood, or maybe am still standing, in the same emotional wreckage. My ex made me feel like her cheating was my failure. And like Cami, I’m rebuilding pieces someone else shattered.
I clear my throat. “You deserve more than okay, Cami. But I get it. Sometimes enough is the first step.”
After dinner, we tidy up, then migrate to the living room, wineglasses in hand.
Cami drops onto the couch without hesitation, one leg under her as she sips wine.